


Four Musketeers and One Rescue

by libraryv



Series: Shots of Musketeer Adrenaline [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Banter, Musketeers Musketeering, Rescue Missions, The boys being good at what they do, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-08-14 04:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: d'Artagnan and Porthos must break into a fortress to rescue their brothers after a mission goes sideways.





	1. Two Musketeers

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I do love writing our glorious boys in action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: allusion to torture.

It was the middle of August, it was high noon, and it was unbearably, unthinkably, hot.

The midday sun beat down, stifling and oppressive. The trees scattered in the forest clearing offered little shade; their dry and skeletal branches sprawling out against the cloudless sky above them. Dust motes glittered in the stillness, and as d’Artagnan shifted his feet, impatient, another cloud rose up from the pine needles at his feet. He felt sweat run down his jaw into the collar of his linen shirt; their jackets had been abandoned long ago. He leaned his head back against the bark of the tree behind him and brought it back again immediately; much too hot.

He looked across at Porthos, leaning against his own trunk, watching the stone battlements of the fortress as casually as if he were on a picnic. His habitual bandana had turned a shade darker; it was soaked through with perspiration. He nodded to himself, then met d’Artagnan’s eyes, holding up four fingers.

Four men. 

Well. They may not have their swords, but they had their guns.

With four bullets.

Aramis and Athos were actually the two better marksmen, but there was a problem: they were currently being held captive.

The men stationed at the walls must be stopped first, then d’Artagnan and Porthos could rush the entrance quickly before meeting inevitable resistance.

Porthos gave d’Artagnan a wide, encouraging smile, then drew his gun. They might not be the best shots, but they knew how to make pulling the trigger count. D’Artagnan did the same, and the heavy, gauzy afternoon drew its breath around him as time warped and stalled. He bent his torso around the tree, sweat burning his eyes as his focus narrowed on the shadowy figure astride the battlements.

A squeeze of the trigger, and he barely felt the recoil. The sharp crack of the bullet leaving the chamber sliced into the dusty sunshine, echoed by Porthos’ weapon firing a split-second later. His mark had seen him, had drawn his own weapon, but d’Artagnan had been too quick, and the man tumbled to the ground, clutching at his chest.

"That's half of one battle" said d'Artagnan breathlessly as they reloaded, sweat making his fingers slick and clumsy against the barrel. Answering fire was ringing out over their heads; tree bark exploded around them, and he spit out rough bits of it from his mouth. The worry about his brothers was fizzing, prickling at his nerves; they needed to be there, at the door, _immediately._

Porthos looked at d’Artagnan. 

"We’ve lost the element of surprise. Make this one count.”

One last shared nod and they both turned, sticking their heads out from around their trees. D'Artagnan knew it was either him or the man on the wall mirroring him, it was this one shot standing between him and his brothers.

Gunfire reverberated through the forest and two remaining figures fell; the walls were empty. 

Porthos chuckled.

“Not bad! An’ as for the rest, well, I can storm a door pretty good.” He stepped cautiously from behind the trunk, hesitating, but there was nothing. Good enough. The two men began racing down to the fortress door, slipping and sliding on the steep embankment, an avalanche of pine needles and dry leaves rustling down along with them. 

They paused just outside the door, taking only a moment. d'Artagnan felt the loss of his sword keenly, and they didn't know how many men they faced on the other side of the heavy oak wood. He clenched his fists in both preparation and against his own nervousness. Porthos was looking at him.

"Hey."

The large musketeer's eyes were full of reassurance. 

"Remember what I told you, all righ'? Always go forward, an' keep moving." 

D'Artagnan pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and gave a determined nod; he could do this. Porthos gave a sudden, disarming grin.

"Let's show 'em what we can do."

He kicked at the door, which swung alarmingly open, and d'Artagnan took a deep breath, expecting men to come streaming towards them, swords drawn. 

Nothing. 

Silence, broken only by the door beginning to shut again, the iron hinges creaking eerily. 

Porthos frowned. 

"Tha's odd."

He stepped inside, and d'Artagnan followed. An empty hall, completely bare and filled with shadows cast by the noon sun. At the end of it, stone steps rose up and out of sight. 

"AAAUUUGGGGH!"

An inhuman scream rent the air, causing goosebumps to break out on d'Artagnan's skin, sweat prickling everywhere. 

"Was that-?"

"It wasn' them." Porthos shook his head fiercely, his mouth a tight line. 

D'Artagnan swallowed and began to move forward, his boots silent as they began ascending the stairs, winding higher and higher, narrower and narrower into the cool, stony shadows. 

There was a single door at the top; d'Artagnan pushed against it gingerly and it gave easily. Too easily. The whole afternoon felt loaded with strangeness; the fortress a silent trap, waiting to spring. 

Stepping inside, d'Artagnan saw that the room was empty, except for a single chair in the middle of the floor. A man was tied to it, his linen shirt open at the collar, his skin dull and dirty underneath the glisten of sweat. His fingers were bloody: two of his nails had been pulled from their beds on his right hand. His head was hanging forward, but he raised it at their entrance. Sharp blue eyes assessed them from under the sweat-soaked hair, and a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. 

"What took you so long?"


	2. Four Musketeers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers must find each other within the fortress, and the rest of the mission becomes clear.

"Your hand!" gasped d'Artagnan in outrage. Athos gave them a cool smile, and clicked his tongue in mock annoyance.

"Sitting in this sunbeam has been far worse; have you gentlemen noticed the heat today?" 

His tone was carefully composed, but d’Artagnan could see the relief plainly in the blue eyes, and the bloodied fingers of Athos’ right hand were trembling. 

D’Artagnan strode forward and immediately began working at the knotted rope binding Athos to the chair, as Athos continued speaking. 

“I believe I saw one of them put a knife in the top right drawer of the desk, but it will be locked.”

Porthos went to the desk, smiling.

“Locks don’ bother me much.”

He pulled out a pin that was threaded into an inside pocket and began working on the drawer.

D’Artagnan had quick fingers; he had reached the last knot, but it was giving him trouble. Footsteps on the stairs caused the three men to freeze.

“Damn,” said Athos, as nonchalantly as if he were commenting on the weather. “D’Artagnan?”

“I’ve almost got it! If I can just get this last one-“ He tugged at the offending knot. "I could use a knife!" he said wildly in Porthos' direction.

Porthos gave him a wide smile.

"Patience, young one."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth, panicking slightly. He had not yet mastered the nonchalant air that his older brothers seemed to have in spades; did not have the control over his emotions that came from years of facing down adrenaline. His sweat-soaked hair was hanging in front of his eyes, making it difficult to see. He shook it back out of his face, his fingers slipping, and heard Athos' voice in front of him, the calm tone soothing,

"Steady. The knot will come."

The locked drawer came loose, and Porthos yanked it open triumphantly. 

"There!" He reached in and immediately drew out a knife, which glinted hopefully in the sunlit room.

The footsteps were close. 

Porthos walked to the door and waited beside it, looming and ready to strike.

A formidably large man burst into the room, sword drawn in one hand and a harquebus in the other, when several things happened at once.

The intruder received an elbow to the stomach from Porthos, who simultaneously tossed the knife to d'Artagnan, who caught it effortlessly. The man doubled over, gasping, and his sword dropped to the floor. D’artagnan sliced through the last of the knots and Athos sprang up from the chair like a cat, grabbing the dropped sword in his good hand and bringing it up to the man’s chin in one graceful sweep of his lithe body. The gun in the man's other hand was knocked to the floor by d'Artagnan's quick fling of the knife; it went flying through the air and pinned the man's sleeve to the wall behind him. D'Artagnan grinned, and caught the gun as it skidded towards him.

Porthos, with a quick nod, disappeared back down the stairs. D’Artagnan and Athos could handle themselves, and Aramis was still somewhere inside.

The man at the end of Athos’ sword was stammering, his hands held in the air. He looked thoroughly shocked at the split-second turn of events. D’Artagnan advanced, knife and gun held out, but just as the man opened his mouth, Athos flipped the blade of the sword in the air and caught the handle, slamming the hand guard into the side of the man's head. The large body crumpled to the floor in an unconscious heap.

D'Artagnan stared at Athos, who shrugged.

"We really do not have the time."

D'Artagnan grinned at his mentor.

"I'm not complaining. Shall we go help Porthos?"

"Yes."

They pelted down the stairs, the afternoon's glare filtering eerily through arrow-windows, lighting the stone steps just enough for them not to slip.

Back at the front hall, Athos veered around the corner to the left, and they both ran flat out down another hallway where they could hear Porthos kicking a door down. The three of them stormed into the room to find Aramis, alone and blindfolded, hands and feet bound, in a corner.

He lifted his head, smiling.

“Your timing is good, but it could be better. The Duke is about to return with two men and twice as many instruments of torture. Felt like cutting it fine today, did you boys?”

D’Artagnan began slicing the ropes at his brother's hands and feet.

"This is far easier with a knife," he smiled, and Porthos chuckled as he untied Ararmis' blindfold.

“I’m glad to see you unharmed – but who was screamin’?”

Aramis looked up as the black cloth was removed, stretching his neck.

“I don’t know. This whole place is a badly set-up mind game.”

Freed, he gave a nod to d’Artagnan and stood, stretching and rubbing his wrists. 

“They don’t have many men; this is merely a small group of the Cardinal’s, trying to foil us." He laughed.

"They happened upon this fortress; I doubt they know the layout much better than we do." He looked at Athos' hand, frowning, but Athos shook his head.

"They've taken the map, but we can get it back."

D'Artagnan nodded eagerly. 

"Of course we can! Where is it?"

Aramis shrugged. 

"Not a clue."

Porthos hushed them all.

“Listen!”

Voices could be heard coming towards the room. 

Aramis faced the others.

"We need to get that map."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want these to be short, but this one does have one more chapter. The second chapter would have been too long, otherwise. :D


	3. One Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four Musketeers must face down the Duke and his men, get the map, and escape the fortress. Tougher than it sounds.

The four men looked at each other; the late afternoon sun casting light onto their anxious faces. The voices in the hall were getting louder, and they needed a plan.

Porthos spoke.

"If I was gonna make a bet-" he began,

"-never a good idea, for you," put in Aramis, and d'Artagnan and Athos exchanged an amused look.

Porthos grinned and continued.

"I would make a bet this Duke isn' a brave man; we apply the right pressure an' he'll give us the location of the map."

Athos nodded at this, and added,

“If _I_ were making a bet, I would say the Duke has the map on his person.”

He indicated himself and d'Artagnan. 

"We can apply the pressure."

Aramis looked pointedly at Athos' right hand, hanging carefully at his side.

"Not too literally, I hope. And you have only the one sword."

He received a quelling look from Athos, and a fervent,

“We can handle him!” from d’Artagnan.

Aramis, used to both Athos’ stubbornness and d’Artagnan’s willingness to throw himself anywhere his older brother led, gave a resigned sigh.

"All right. No time to argue with you two. Porthos and I will start looking for the map elsewhere.” He pointed at the empty window in the far wall, leading back into an inner hallway.

“And we have an exit." 

A set of quick nods, a rough clasp of shoulders, and he and Porthos were gone swiftly and silently out the window.

Not a moment too soon; the door opened to the Duke and another man.

The man had his gun at the ready, but even left-handed, Athos was far quicker off the mark. One efficient stroke, and the Duke’s man went down with a roar of pain; whimpering and curled up on the floor. 

The Duke stared down in dismay, then at the corner where Aramis had been.

There was a moment of silence, then he lunged at Athos, who had the sword held out, almost lazily. Anticipating him, Athos threw the blade easily to D’Artagnan, who was closer, and caught it. He stopped the Duke with a surprise attack from the side, knocking the Duke’s rapier to the floor.

D’Artagnan brought his sword up close to the Duke’s stomach, causing him to freeze. 

“You cannot kill me! I am the Duc d’Orlay!”

“Congratulations,” answered Athos dryly.

“Shall we bow to you before we run you through?” added d’Artagnan. 

Orlay sneered.

"I am a favourite of the Cardinal's!"

"Ah, then it is not congratulations that are in order, but condolences," said Athos, crossing his arms in front of him.

D’Artagnan brought the blade low against the Duke’s chest, just below his heart, in between his ribs. A stroke away from death.

"The Cardinal, however, is not a favourite of _ours_," Athos began, in an indifferent tone. "So I suggest you tell us where the map is, or this young man here will not hesitate to put that weapon in his hand to good use."

Orlay’s expression changed: fear was overriding entitlement.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

D’Artagnan smiled.

“Unfortunately for you, your grace, I am the daring sort.”

D’Artagnan pressed his sword further half an inch, and Orlay yelped. His hand twitched upwards, and in a flash, d'Artagnan understood. Athos had been right.

With a quick flick of the blade, he cut down the centre of the Duke's jacket, slicing deep enough only to cut cleanly through the layer of fabric. Orlay's jacket fell open into two wide pieces, and a yellowed, folded piece of parchment fell to the floor. Athos, smirking, snatched it up, and d'Artagnan smiled, sword still held out.

“I’ll shout and more men will be here in seconds!” Orlay was glaring.

“Don’t know why you haven’t done that already,” rejoined d’Artagnan.

Athos was already heading for the door, and d’Artagnan whirled away from the Duke, right behind his brother, but he couldn't help stopping and turning on his way out. He executed a mocking bow, accompanied by a smug smile, before speeding after Athos. They heard Orlay roar for his men.

“We did it!” crowed d’Artagnan, catching up to Athos as they both ran down the hall. “I was worried we might not pull it off!”

"Yes," breathed Athos, as they skidded towards a corner. "Obviously not worried enough to stop you showing off and mocking him with that bow."

There was censure in his tone, but amusement, as well.

They rushed around the corner and came across Porthos and Aramis, who were arguing over where the map might be.

"It’s with us!" said d'Artagnan, by way of explanation, as he and Athos ran past. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look, then caught up, and the four of them were racing around the last curve, towards the front entrance.

“Some days,” panted Porthos, “I imagine what it’s like to lead a quiet life.”

They reached the door, crashing against it, and found it firmly shut.

“Barred from the outside?” observed d’Artagnan.

Porthos pounded a fist against it helplessly.

D'Artagnan snapped his fingers with a sudden realization. 

"The gun! We left it in the room! I can make a run for it."

The door swung open to reveal a good dozen of Orlay's men, blades drawn. 

"No need," said Aramis faintly.

There was a moment of quiet as the four Musketeers stood, sore and tired, facing the Duke and his men.

The setting sun cast an golden glow onto the steel of the swords, and D’Artagnan resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow. He could see the trees on the forest bank behind the assembled men; it felt like days, not hours, had passed since he and Porthos had shot their way into the fortress.

He felt suddenly, overwhelmingly, exhausted. They could not win this fight; four men and one sword against at least twelve of both?

He looked to his right, at the proud profile of Athos. The blue eyes flicked towards his, the corner lifting in the merest trace of a wink. It gave d’Artagnan a shot of adrenaline; they would go down, but they would go down fighting. He straightened his spine and lifted his chin, hands balling into fists.

The Duke smiled; he had won, and he knew it.

“You have made it an entertaining chase, my friends, but I’m afraid I need that map.”

_Come and get it,_ thought d’Artaganan.

A breath, and a sudden gunshot rang out, breaking apart the evening stillness. D’Artagnan looked around wildly, and another shot split the air. Two of the Duke’s men fell, and the scene erupted; the men pressed forward as D’Artagnan stepped in front of his brothers, blade clashing against the first one drawn against his, Aramis, Porthos and Athos twisting to the sides, elbows and fists flying.

More gunshots, and more of Orlay's men fell; d’Artagnan saw a familiar hat disappear behind a tree trunk, then a shoulder with a fleur-de-lis etched onto the leather withdraw behind another, as he pivoted to the side.

_Treville,_ he realized joyously. 

He sensed Athos’ hand reaching out for the sword and tossed it to him. 

Suddenly, a collective battle cry was ringing down the forest hill as musketeers came streaming down the embankment, and the Duke and his men turned to face them.

It was a quick fight; the musketeers had them beat by numbers alone. It was a few moments of clashing blades and muffled fists, then it ended as suddenly it had begun, with the Duke calling for surrender. 

Those of his men still standing were being subdued, and Orlay found himself being led away grimly by two musketeers, strong-arming him into submission.

“The Cardinal will hear about this!” he bellowed, over his shoulder to Treville.

“No doubt,” returned the captain calmly. “As will the King.”

He walked over to d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, his eyes betraying concern as he looked over their weary faces.

"Thanks for the rescue, Cap'n," said Porthos, giving him a firm and friendly nod. 

"I knew as soon as you did not return to report at camp that something had gone awry at your post. And I had heard reports of the Duke looking for the map."

He squinted into the trees at the setting sun. 

"And I knew there was an abandoned fortress nearby, so the rest of the matter was easy enough to figure out."

Aramis had taken Athos' hand in his own, and having found bandages, was finally taking care of it. Athos was silently tolerating the _tsk_ing emanating from his brother's mouth. Aramis stopped in his ministrations, looking up at Treville for a moment.

"Don't you want to know whether or not we got the map?"

Treville smiled, shaking his head. 

"I don't even need to ask."

He clasped d'Artagnan on the shoulder, and turned away, walking towards the rest of the Duke's men,who were held waiting by the musketeers.

Aramis sighed. 

"I don't want to think what would have happened if Treville hadn't shown up."

Porthos chuckled. 

"Nothin'. We woulda beat them."

Athos rolled his eyes, although a smirk was pulling at the corner of his mouth.

D'Artagnan grinned. He dropped his arms around Porthos and Athos' shoulders and beamed at Aramis.

"Of course we would have! My only complaint is that it was hot this afternoon, wasn't it? Let's go have a drink."

Aramis dropped Athos' hand for the time being, and the four marched towards the shade of the fortress, arm in arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some logistics missing: what the map is for/why it's such a big deal, for one. Why the Duke had Athos tortured, and if they already had the map, then what were they planning to do with Aramis? And what happened in the first place, that Porthos and d'Art didn't have their swords?
> 
> ...so yes, I'm aware of the holes. Lol. I mostly just want to write these little ficlets to have our boys swashbuckling around, being fun and gallant and suave and wonderful, so the circumstances matter less than the fun I hope you have reading.
> 
> A HUGE thank you goes out to those of you who have read and loved this! It's not exactly anything you haven't seen before, but I hope it's a good time. :D


End file.
